As It Should Be

Chapter 2: Oxford, Boys and Opiates

James was intensely clever. At times he seemed to even keep up with Sherlocks own intellect. They had met in the debate team at Oxford. Usually Sherlock found himself wiping the floor with every opponent without any effort at all. Of course, this did lead to most of his classmates thinking of him as an asshole and a show off. But that was the point wasn't it? In a debate class? He almost couldn't help it, but it did sting when he noticed the rest of the boys heading to the pub after, without even a look back at Sherlock as he walked to his flat alone. He had felt rather alone at university, he could barely stand to admit it but he missed Mycroft, afterall. You don't realise the dependence on the feeling of home and familiarity until you lose it completely. But then one day, he arrived to debate class and from that day onwards he never felt a loss of home again. James had transferred partway through his first year at Trinity College to Oxford when his family had made the move to London. Oxford rarely let in people part way through term but James had had the greatest exam results of any other Trinity student in history, and had even been heralded for the thesis he wrote at only 14, that went on to receive multiple prizes and changed modern medicine forever. So yes, James was smart. And he seemed immediately drawn to Sherlock. Seemed to understand him. They would debate, for hours, never either of them winning. And when they were done, they would walk together around campus, smoke cigarettes and talk shit about their classmates. They fell naturally into each other.

Although it felt as if he had loved James his whole life, it wasn't until a single damp autumn afternoon that he knew. They had both unspokenly decided they weren't necessarily in need of the second half of their chemistry class that day. Both knew more about chemistry than half the professors in the place. It just came natural to them, to turn left, instead of right, after they had bought their coffee. To walk further and further away from the university building, their footsteps beating onward against cobbled streets, avoiding puddles and kicking through the blaze of orange and yellow leaves strewn across their path like confetti. After mentioning he was out of cigarettes, Sherlock grabbed James by the hand to steer him in the direction of the off licence. The shared touch lingered a moment too long to be considered platonic, their gaze drawn to each other, they smiled, tenderly at each other, heartbeats growing louder, and palms growing sweatier. The moment felt like an eternity, but was broken in only seconds, when a group of drunken middle aged men staggered out of the Off Licence and began throwing slurs at the both of them. They quickly broke their contact, and heads down, they jostled past the men into the shop, bursting into an eruption of laughter as soon as they were sure the men were out of ear shot. It was clear to Sherlock that this laughter was a disguise for something else. Pain, relief, fear, confusion, it didn't matter really. But the fact it was there, and it was shared, meant more than anything. Cigarettes purchased, and now more desperately needed than ever, they slipped behind the shop to get out of the wind. Leaning against the wall Sherlock attempted three times to light his cigarette, without success. James gently took the light from his hands, fingers grazing against Sherlock's palms as he took it, leaning in closely to him as he struck a flame, neatly and easily. So easily in fact, James had often wondered if perhaps Sherlock had struggled purposely. Sherlock leant into the flame, lighting the end of his cigarette, taking a long slow drag, as James lingered still too close. He let his head fall back against the brick as he blew smoke up into the air, the white smoke dancing across the blue sky, like clouds in the wind. When he looked down again, James was inching closer still. Their hearts were pounding, James reached his hand up to Sherlock's face, resting his hand gently on his cheek, before tenderly brushing a hair from his face, and leaning into a kiss. It was gentle, and passionate, and tasted like cigarette ash. But Sherlock felt his heart rise up into his throat, feeling as if it was about to burst into a million pieces, and scatter like stardust across the universe. Sherlock wanted to say something, anything, as their lips separated and he felt able to breathe again. But he couldn't find the words. An anomaly in his life, really. He stood, shocked into silence, and James just smiled at him, and said "Come on." before turning and walking down the path back towards University.

It became easy, after that, for Sherlock to let himself fall completely in love. All fear and reticence had been firmly stomped into the ground alongside the butts of their cigarettes. It suddenly became natural for Sherlock to be himself, a feeling he had never felt before, and would only feel once more in the future. James challenged Sherlock in a way he had never been challenged before. He comforted him in a way he had never been comforted before. And he made him laugh like he'd never laughed before. Ultimately, what mattered most,was that James knew Sherlock best. He was the first man Sherlock had been with, first person actually. He was the first person, too, that Sherlock had been vulnerable with, the first person he'd allowed himself to be human in front of. To be silly, lighthearted, real, to be wrong in front of.

They were together for three years, the whole way through University. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that they had both been completely and utterly in love. Sherlock had met James' parents, and had become quite close to their family dog. James never met Sherlock's parents, though. Despite his efforts to persuade them that his interest in men was not just a phase, his parents still insisted on asking him about potential girlfriends at every chance they got, a firm indication that he was to play pretend when he was in their home. He felt resentful of their disregard for who he really was. Like the true reality of who their son was didn't matter, as long as he seemed like the perfect ceramic statue, that they could proudly display on their mantlepiece, any cracks lingering beneath the varnish weren't a concern to them, so long as it looked the part. He did appreciate, however, that there were far worse scenarios he could find himself in, and that often coming out can result in homelessness or even death. So he didn't like to complain too much. Even less so, when James' parents died in a tragic car accident, only a year into their relationship.

Mycroft was the only member of Sherlock's family to actually meet James. He hated him. It could be argued that this was due to the ingrained familial homophobia that would result in him hating any man Sherlock were to end up with. However, it may have been more justified than that, given that the only time they had met, Mycroft was pulling a needle out of the arm of his brother, that James had inserted only moments earlier.

Sherlock didn't blame James for his heroin addiction. He'd been experimenting with drugs since he was 14 years old. It was unlikely he'd had made it through life without trying heroin at some point. It just so happens that James was the person to introduce him to it.

But Sherlock was just another long haired, tight t-shirt wearing teen queer in the 80's, it felt like his moral obligation to fulfil conservative stereotypes and start shooting up in the arms of his lover as David Bowie played in the background.

But now, of course, it was the 21st century, and people were far less prejudiced. But Sherlock was in pain, whether he admitted it or not, so it was now his turn to negatively influence James. The last time he'd seen James, about a year ago, he had been excitedly showing off his 90 day chip from NA. Sherlock was sure he had stayed sober all the way up until the night of John's wedding, when Sherlock had called him, and the two of them fell quickly into bad habits. But, selfishly, it seemed to be working in his favour, as it had been 6 months since the wedding and James was still around, and was giving off no signs of potentially leaving.

Sherlock felt loved again. Whether that was the presence of the very first love of his life, James, or the very second love of his life, heroin. When he used, he felt quiet and calm, and not afraid anymore. Molly would tell him he was wasting his gift, but it wasn't as if anyone really needed him anymore, anyway. He and James relished in their isolation, their self sabotage. There is nothing quite as relaxing as just giving up completely on life. There's also nothing quite as stressful as giving up on life. Which is why heroin comes in useful. Everything was going well, until one day, out of the blue, John showed up at 221B Baker Street.